


Paper Memories (Folding Stars)

by QueerGirlTakeover



Series: CreampuffWeek [7]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: CreampuffWeek, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerGirlTakeover/pseuds/QueerGirlTakeover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura leaves Carmilla alone for a week and comes back to a room filled with stars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Memories (Folding Stars)

Stars cover the room, little paper stars no bigger than the end of Laura's thumb. Carmilla, cross-legged on the bed, is covered in a sea of them, her lap overflowing. They are every color of the rainbow, plus some. Carmilla fills her hands with them and they pour through her fingers like water, like years. There must be thousands of them. Laura has to push them aside with her feet in order to find floor space to step.

“Carmilla?” she says as she wades through them. They move in little waves around her feet, each step a ripple through water.

Carmilla looks up, her eyes reflecting the stars. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

Carmilla nods. A green star revolves between thumb and forefinger. Stars bounce off the bed when Laura puts her bag down. When she picks up a handful they are so light she can't believe she's holding anything.

“I leave you alone for one week and this is what I come back to?” Laura asks jokingly. Carmilla gives her a little smile, runs her fingers through the pile in her lap.

“I guess I got a little carried away.”

“Any particular reason?” Laura brushes some of them off the bedspread beside Carmilla and sits down, putting her hand on Carmilla's knee. Her crossed legs are a lake of stars, some of them glittering gold, others sea green, some like pitch.

“I don't know,” Carmilla says. “I just found the instructions and I couldn't stop.”

“They're pretty.” She holds two of them in her palm, neon orange and pale gray.

Carmilla takes a shaky breath. “I wrote down things that happened to me,” she says. “Good things, bad things. I wrote them down and then...” she trails off like she can't breathe to end the sentence.

“You folded them into stars,” Laura finishes for her. The stars in her hand suddenly feel heavy, the room stuffed.

“I don't know why,” Carmilla says. She rolls one against her palm, drops it, rolls another against her thumb. “I just couldn't stop.”

Laura drops the stars into the pile, tucks Carmilla's dark hair behind her ear, kisses her cheek. When Carmilla looks at her she sees the sadness, the depths into which Carmilla had reached. “They're beautiful,” Laura says.

Carmilla shakes her head, swirls her fingers through the galaxy in her lap. “No, they're ugly. So many of them are bad things that I did.” She reaches across the bed, picks up a navy blue one and shows it to Laura, dark in her pale hand. “This is a boy I killed in 1748. I was hungry and he was there and I killed him.” She picks up a light pink one, patterned with spades. “This is the time I had a huge fight with my friend. I never saw her again. She was staked.”

Laura watches her list the bad parts of her life, the dark places, and keeps her face expressionless. Finally Carmilla stops talking. She won't look at Laura, just plays with the paper in her hands, made into so much more by intention, by words. There is silence for a moment, then Laura points to a bright yellow one, sitting by Carmilla's pillow. “What's that?”

Carmilla smiles genuinely. “It's that time you told me that I deserved better. I think that was the first time I thought I might someday care about you.”

Laura gives Carmilla's knee a little jog. “See? It's not all bad. What about this?” The paper flashes silver under the thin dorm lights. It is a little star of trapped moonlight.

“That's our first kiss. And this...” Carmilla rifles through the stars then comes up with one, orange, but so pale it's almost white. “Is when we defeated my mother and the light.”

“There are good things too in your life,” Laura says. “And here they are, for you to see and feel and remember.”

“And the bad ones?”

“You've turned them into something beautiful. They're always going to be a part of you, and you don't have to pretend like they didn't happen.”

Carmilla smiles a little, rests her head on Laura's shoulder. “Thank you.”

Laura looks around at the floor, at the universe surrounding her, at the years of Carmilla's life folded neatly away, corners tucked against one another, watchful protectors. She watches as Carmilla picks up another strip of paper, writes something on it, then begins to fold. It is simple, fold and turn, fold and turn, fold and turn until there's no more left to fold and then a star springs into life under her fingers, sky blue and perfectly shaped.

She teaches Laura how to make them, how to breathe air into the pockets of thought they create, and together they bring more light into their universe. They pack them into jars, slide the jars under Carmilla's bed. There's nowhere else to put them, and there are so many. Laura pours them in, tumbling off her hand, fragile and strong, empty and full. They leave another jar open on Laura's desk and slowly add more stars to it, new solar systems of time. Laura imagines they are whispering their secrets to each other, sharing memories. Hope in the dark.


End file.
